Great result Sweder. Sorry, I forgot to say this yesterday.
Sub-4 is amazing for someone as fat as you. It gives hope to us all.
Ha ha!
But seriously, a tremendous run. All I had to do was not walk. Sounds like you actually did some running. Look forward to hearing all about it, but only after the rehydration process has run its full course.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Just been catching up on the forum. Well done in Paris, a great time too. Loved the description of the generation game, after that I'd imagine that a marathon PB is a piece of piss. Great running and great writing too
Another excellent event courtesy of the fine people at the Jog Shop.
40+ runners assembled above Brighton Marina for a leisurely 3.5 mile eastward lope followed by a balls-out, eye-popping 6k thrash to the finish.
I pottered along to meet up with Remy, Jill, Nigel, Terry et al.
Word of my Parisian adventures had reached far and wide thanks to Nigel (not running today – groin strain) and Kadir (hi-fives and wide grins exchanged). I accepted the warm congratulations and told a few tales about encroaching crowds and anarchy at the water stations. The general consensus was Paris will be on the agenda for a few more Sunday Strollers in 2007.
A strange blend of high and low cloud with a twist of sea-mist, a boisterous westerly breeze and intermittent sunshine created a muggy, humid atmosphere. The outward plod was comfy enough (if a little warm), the springy-turfed cliff tops a welcome alternative to pavement pounding. Give me steep hills on soft ground over flat concrete/ tarmac/ cobble stones any day. I ran with Remy as we considered possible Autumn races; Berlin, Dublin, Amsterdam . . . the opportunities are endless. Sam 'Yoda' Lambourne hobbled out with us, his shattered left leg held almost straight, shoulders rising to accommodate his awkward gait.
As is traditional we re-assembled at the Wire, a chain link fence stretching from the road to the cliff edge. Sue, an old friend and recent convert to running, jogged in.
‘That wasn’t so bad! Easier than last year.’
I quietly pointed out we’d enjoyed a fairy decent tail-wind; that same breeze awaited us with malice aforethought. At least it would cool us off.
When all were gathered Lycra Tony, confusingly sporting a pair of jeans, called us to order and sent us on our way, strolling back to his car to beat us to the finish line.
I started very slowly, painfully aware of two things:
1) that my legs would not appreciate a flat-out burn, and
2) that the two hardest hill climbs fall in the first mile.
Halfway back I got a few warning signals from both hamstrings; nothing more sinister than fatigue, but enough to keep me steady. The last half mile was pretty tough. I needed a fair bit of puffing and panting to hold off the young lady I'd caught napping on the last incline. As I crested the final hill, the Marina laid out below and to the left, I heard a high-pitched squeak. I looked up; there amongst the finishers, waiting friends and families, was a small, brown-clad figure bouncing up and down, long blond hair flying in the breeze.
'That's my Dad! That's my Dad!'
Phoebe and Shayne had come to watch, and the racing element had clearly engaged my daughter.
'Come on Dad - you're 19th!'
I rolled in, indeed in 19th place, happy to have completed the course but definitely tired and glad it's all over. I ran past the finish into Phoebe’s arms. She beamed with pride.
‘Well done! You were 19th! That’s great!’
19th never felt so good
Before the start I'd hoped for a sub 30 minute homeward leg (last year I managed 27 minutes, but that was pre London).
'What time'd I get?'
Tony tossed a Brooks-sponsored Jog Shop/ Good Friday Run shirt at me and consulted the list.
'Ash, Ash . . . 29:59.'
Yeehaw. I'll take that. Another perfectly judged race
Sam rolled in some time later, sweat pouring from his brow, teeth set against the pain of running with a dysfunctional knee. I joined the crowd in welcoming him home. He spoke to a few people before approaching our group, eyeing my new T-shirt.
‘What you think of the shirts? Not bad for free, eh?’
Not bad at all, Sam. You’re a class act.
There's the Lewes 10k on Monday or a possible pre-London outing on Sunday morning. I can't do both, and I've never done my hometown 10 before. Might be nice as gentle stroll. Both are off-road so attrition on the joints is not an issue; I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I decided to go for an easy eight today rather than the local 10k tomorrow. It’s all well and good entering a race on the basis that you’ll take it easy; the last thing I need is to go hammer and tongs and do some damage.
The run this morning was a carbon copy of the Good Friday 12k without the mad dash home. Half a dozen London hopefuls gathered under the watchful eye of Lycra Tony. Rog arrived just before the off and we embraced, grinning like fools. As last Sunday we ran together, trading our Paris memories like two eager schoolboys swapping football cards. My legs felt pretty good, though I struggled in the muggy heat, shedding my windcheater at the turn. There was no temptation to kick for home in the last mile. Rog and I stuck out our chests and strode boldly to the finish to the mock applause of our FLM-bound comrades.
A quick visit to Mac’s café for coffee and fruitcake with Tony and a couple of the London gals. The ladies were full of questions about Paris, our stories feeding their growing excitement. As the tales came thick and fast I realised I was still on a high. Post Marathon Blues are sure to follow in the weeks ahead, but I’m hoping a few gentle plods to Blackcap and tentative plans for the Autumn will take the edge off.
Good luck to everyone running London next Sunday.
You can’t take it easy enough this week.
Eat, drink and be quietly merry, for on Sunday you dance with the Devil
See you at Mile 22.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Quite a day. Strapped inside my modest home office, eyes glued to my computer screen, the only respite an occasional delve into the crazy pre-FLM world that is Running Commentary. Marathon madness finally got to me; I threw on my running vest (JDRF Team 2004 vintage), shorts & off-roaders and head for the hills.
My first post-Paris run to Blackcap with the hounds; well, two of them. Tess the hardy whippet developed a rather worrying lump on her back that over the Easter took on the size and shape of a large egg. This was finally excised by the vet yesterday leaving the sort of livid scar that gave Dr. Frankenstein a bad name. For those of a strong disposition I’ve posted a before and after montage.
A stodgy lope in surprising humidity into the early evening was just what my doctor would have ordered. As the rust fell away from my well-rested legs I blasted a few cobwebs out of my lungs, chugging steadily to the rhythm of Planet Rock. ACDC offered to walk all over me, George Thoroughgood invited me to move it on over and Rick Wakeman read out a string of old and mostly un-funny gags. One story grabbed my attention (it was the only one I’d not heard before), and to save you the tedium of an uneventful 45 minute sweaty slog I’ll share it now.
A city chap took himself off to an up-market restaurant to treat himself to a slap-up meal. As he waited for his starter he noticed a stunning redhead sitting alone at the next table. Cursing the shyness that prevented him starting a conversation the chap watched the gorgeous lady as she sipped a long drink. Suddenly the woman endured a coughing fit, during which her glass eye flew from its socket and careered towards the watching fellow. With an instinctive lunge the chap threw out an arm and caught the orb inches from the flagstone floor.
‘How can I ever thank you?’ gushed the redhead as she returned her prosthetic to its socket. ‘Please, allow me to buy you dinner!’
Not believing his good fortune the chap agreed, and the couple enjoyed a sumptuous feast. They followed this by taking in a West End play before moving on to a club to dance the night away.
‘Come back for nightcap . . . and stay for breakfast?’ asked the ravishing girl.
‘Absolutely!’
A night of unbridled passion ensued, followed by a few hours sleep.
The chap awoke to the sound of eggs and bacon sizzling in the kitchen, hardly believing his luck as he stretched out in the King size bed in what looked like a very expensive apartment.
‘So’, he said, waltzing into the kitchen, a towel hanging loosely from his hips,
‘D’you treat every guy you meet like this?’
‘Not really’, she smiled.
‘You just happened to catch my eye . . .’
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No running to report and off to Houston tomorrow for a while so not much prospect of any. Lots of talk of the Seaford Half in June and New York in November, but so far nothing booked.
Tess had her tube removed yesterday and seems to be making a good recovery. It never ceases to amaze me how one so slight can have the resilience of a battle-hardened rhino.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Come on down.
We can sort you out some local accomodation and might even lay on a bit of brekkie for you. Of course I'll have to enter the race first . . . must get around to that
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I've only just got online again after returning to Blighty a couple of weeks ago. Enjoyed your Paris report alot. Very impressed with your ability to relax and enjoy the place and then go out and run a fast marathon. One day I'd love to be able turn-the-screw during a marathon and run the second half quicker. Great stuff.
Thanks GM. Your account of the Bombay race remains one of the most inspiring things I've read in a long time. Foolishly I've followed Andy's advice and started reading 'Feet In The Clouds' - I have a horrible feeling I'm destined to have a go at fell running, albeit on a very modest scale, before I hang up my boots . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You know you want to Sweder. Am going to try the Carnethy 5 Hills, its six miles but all uphill. Check this site out : http://www.Carnethy.com and see the walk through of the course. I have no idea how Bill Bland did it in 46 minutes (well he was a bloody hard as nails top flee runner thats how!
What a book! And when I am in agony in Febraury after doing this I will be blaming this book for it.
Carnethy looks excellent, though I'm slightly concerned about the state of some of the finishers in the photos . . . Great run through sequence, too. I'll have to see. I'm hoping to do the Jog Shop Jog in October (but work is threatening to intervene) - it's not all uphill but it's 20 miles with barely three of them close to flat.
Right now I'd be happy with 5 miles on the concrete pavements of Houston. I'll try again tomorrow morning . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Grey leaden skies press early morning humidity into the cracked, unkempt sidewalks of southwest Houston. I plod wearily towards the University of Texas building, last night’s Belhaven already leaking into my Jog Shop Good Friday Run T-shirt. With the pre-Paris taper and two restful weeks post run I’ve had little practice and it shows.
I hail the firemen swabbing the decks of their impressively large Fire Engine outside station 33 on Fannin. Ahead the sidewalk separates, the right side dropping down along the concrete slopes of the Bayou. I take the low road, running heavy alongside the surprisingly clear waters. Birds bathe and swoop to sip from the stream; rodents scurry in the thick Bermuda grass and the wild Sunflowers nod sagely as I chug by.
The heavy cloud and strengthening winds suggest storms, though they’re not likely to trouble me at this Godforsaken hour. I spy a fellow runner, a Korean, heading towards me, stripped to the waist and moving at around twice my cumbersome pace. I offer a Shearer; he accentuates his rhythmic nod for one beat in acknowledgement. A cyclist follows him and I once more raise my left arm in salute. A slightly prolonged blink offers all the greeting I can hope for; less it seems can indeed be more in this State of Excess.
And speaking of excess I notice as I trudge on, my shirt now translucent with beer-sweat, every building I pass is part of this Medical community. Judging by the number of extraordinarily large people I’ve seen in the bars and restaurants tearing into various preparations of thick red meat, for the practitioners in the Texas Medical Centre the future’s bright and lucrative.
I reach Kirby (or at least I pass under the street, still long the Bayou). I swig from my water bottle, wiping the sheen from my brow; time to turn for home. I check the time on my phone – 7:02 am – yep, definitely need to get showered and down to the Reliant Centre where a stream of trucks and containers wait to be unloaded. As I turn a fish of indeterminate size and denomination skitters across the surface of the water below me. I squint in the softly brightening daylight but despite the gin-clear clarity of the stream I can’t see the creature.
I set off headlong into the breeze (it’s been pushing me along the 2 mile stretch so far, and I realise I really have lost a fair amount of form), my thoughts turn to fish. I’m possible the most hapless, hopeless rodman known to man. An early excursion with my fishing-mad brother-in-law Terry – his knowledge and abilities make Jack Hargreaves look like a novice – resulted in the necessary execution of a Jack Pike. I’d tried to free the young monster after he’d tried to swallow a lure packing enough barbs to fill a Joan Rivers show. Sadly by the time Terry had wandered along to see what all the commotion was blood and foam had obscured the target. Terry despatch the tortured creature with a single blow.
Ever since I’ve tried to ease my conscience by becoming a good Fish Husband. Four years ago I renovated our small back garden, designing a decked area with a sunken pool. I purchased a number of tiny fish – goldfish and Ghost carp – and watched in awe as they grew into monsters. I had seven in all, and named every one. Sadly 18 months ago we lost Howard. Named after Howard Hughes due to his reclusive nature. His need to wedge himself between the rocks on the bottom of the pond to rest stemmed from a swim bladder problem; he had to keep moving or he just floated up to the surface. Sadly we were unaware of this, although his failure to develop at the same rate as his cousins and decidedly gimpish swimming style was a cause for concern. Following a fin treatment session in a holding tank I left Howard over night without a means to wedge himself in. The next morning the brave little fellow had lost his fight for life, having swum to exhaustion before expiring, his drained corpse cutting a pitiful figure as it bobbed upended in the black plastic killing chamber. His brief yet inspiring battle was commemorated only by the callous flush of our downstairs loo.
Six remain; Scholesey the goldfish, once brilliant red and named after one of Englands’ finest midfield dynamos. Strangely just as his more celebrated namesake has suffered a setback, so our Scholesey has lost all his colour, turning an off-white. Does this suggest the imminent transfer of the Ginger Marvel to Spurs? Doubtful, buty a worry none the less. Flesh is another slightly larger goldfish and has always been the colour of pallid skin. Goldie is the last and largest of the non-Ghost carp, scales glistening with a creamy-yellow hue. The three remaining Ghosties are Stingray (named after Troy Tempest's submarine vehicle), Monty (a big fellow, sharing his name with the corpulent golfer) and The Bronze, equal in girth to Monty but set apart by his distinctive metallic markings. I talk to them frequently, enjoying the gift of tranquility watching them brings. Terry tells me I've grossly over-fed them but hey-ho, I've a guilty conscience to assuage.
By the time I finished reminiscing about my aquatic friends I reached the U of T building once more, turning right onto Fannin for the half mile back to the apartment. This has been the first step on my return to steady running, and it looks like being a long hard road, especially if I’m determined to sample large quantities of the fine ales on offer here. Sometimes you just have to live with your peccadilloes. Looks like there’ll be few more hard, sweaty morning runs to come this week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
